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Madsen groaned. “Well, I wouldn’t expect you to either, since you don’t even seem to know what song we’re playing. What song is this, Trym?”
    Trym stopped picking his nose and glanced over at his brother questioningly.
    â€œWell, Truls,” Mr. Madsen said. “Can you help Trym out?”
    Truls scratched his back with his trumpet and squinted at the music stand. “I got some rain on my music, Mr. Madsen. I can’t see nothin’,” he said.
    â€œRight,” Mr. Madsen said. “For crying out loud, this is the national anthem. Is there really no one here besides Lisa who can read music? Or at least play in key?”
    Lisa cowered behind her clarinet as she felt everyone else looking at her. She knew what those lookswere saying. They were saying that even if Mr. Madsen said she was good, she shouldn’t think that any of them wanted to be friends with her. In fact, the opposite was true.
    â€œIf we don’t improve by Independence Day, we’re going to have to give up the idea of a band camp this summer,” Mr. Madsen said. “I don’t want to be made into a laughingstock in front of dozens of other band conductors. Understood?”
    Mr. Madsen saw the faces in front of him start gaping. This was a shock to them, that much was clear. After all, he had talked so much and so positively about the big band competition in Eidsvoll, and they were all really looking forward to it. But he had made it clear to them from the very beginning. Nikolai Amadeus Madsen was not playing around, conducting a rattling, old military band. So unless a miracle occurred, no one at Eidsvoll was going to hear so much as a triangleclang from the Dølgen School Marching Band. And unfortunately, since Mr. Madsen’s baton wasn’t a magic wand, there wasn’t going to be any miracle.
    â€œLet’s take it again from the top,” Mr. Madsen said with a sigh, raising his baton. “Ready?”
    But they simply were not ready. In fact, they were all staring at the door to the locker room that was right behind Mr. Madsen’s back. Irritated, he turned around but couldn’t see anyone. He turned back toward the band and was just about to count off when his brain realized that it had seen something in the doorway after all. Something down by the floor. He turned around, took off his sunglasses, and looked at the tiny little boy with the red bangs.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” Mr. Madsen asked curtly.
    â€œShouldn’t you ask
who
I am first?” Nilly said, holding out an old, beat-up trumpet. “I’m Nilly. I canplay the trumpet. You want to hear me play a little?”
    â€œNo!” Mr. Madsen said.
    â€œJust a little … ,” Nilly said, raising his trumpet and forming his lips as if for a kiss.
    â€œNo! No! No!” growled Mr. Madsen, who was bright red in the face and slapping his thigh with the baton. “I am an artist!” he yelled. “I have arranged marches for the big marching band festival in Venice. And now I’m conducting a school band for tone-deaf brats, and I don’t need to hear one more tone-deaf brat. Understood? Now get out!”
    â€œHmm,” Nilly said. “That sounded like an A. I have perfect pitch. Just check with your tuning fork.”
    â€œYou’re not only tone-deaf, you’re deaf!” Mr. Madsen sputtered, shaking and spitting in agitation. “Shut that door again and don’t ever come back here! Surely you don’t think any band would take someone so small that … that …”
    â€œThat there isn’t even room for the stripe on the side of his uniform pants,” Nilly said. “So short that his band medals would drag on the ground. So teensy-weensy that he couldn’t see what was on the music stand. Whose uniform hat falls down over his eyes.”
    Nilly smiled innocently at Mr. Madsen, who was now rushing straight toward him in long